


Keeping Good Company

by blackholehuman



Series: How to Start Over [1]
Category: Carry On - Rainbow Rowell
Genre: Angst, Fluff and Angst, I love Picasso, Major character death - Freeform, SnowBaz, violin cubism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-21
Updated: 2017-01-21
Packaged: 2018-09-18 21:20:15
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,132
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9403241
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blackholehuman/pseuds/blackholehuman
Summary: Don't let the title fool you. This just might break your heart.





	

**BAZ**

 

(Can I get him away from me without breaking any of his bones? What spell will keep him away, so he doesn’t come running back into the fire?)

Then it comes to me.

“Simon,” I say, “I’m so sorry.”

“Baz, don’t!” His hands are cradling my face, and there’s fire in his beautiful eyes. He looks at me with genuine concern and worry that is spilling over with the tears on his cheeks. It’s how I know that the fire is near enough to end me.

So I kiss him. I think it may be the most tender thing I’ve ever done, let alone to Simon Snow. My right hand is on the back of his neck, pulling him closer to me, and my left is on his chest, over his heart, where I can feel his infernal cross burning my palm, but I couldn’t care less. Simon Snow is _actually_ kissing me back. He hasn’t gone still and isn’t as shocked as I imagined he he would be, but the setting seems pretty accurate. My world is ending, and he’s ending it with me. And I’ve always known that this would end in flames.

I have said it before, and I will say it again. I _always_ lose. My heart to Simon, and today, my life.

He hasn’t pulled away yet, but I can feel the distinct warmth of the fire about to take us over. At this point, if I go, he’ll go with me, but even I’m not that selfish. Simon Snow is going to save the world.

I pull away, and I tell him as much. “You are going to save us _all_. I love you, Simon.”

Thankfully, he’s too busy trying to stammer out a sentence that died in his throat, so when my wand touches his collarbone, he doesn’t flinch away.

I close my eyes, and inhale his scent. Smoky as always, sure, but there’s a hint of the wonderful aroma one gets as they walk into a bakery. I open my eyes again, and summon all the magic I have left in me. Because I’m pathetic, and weak, and I can’t help myself, I kiss his forehead. Quickly. When his eyes refocus, when I can see a plan brewing behind his eyes, when his tears stop and motivation is writ all over his face, I know it’s now or never.

I choose now.

My wand still lying lightly on his collarbone, I lean in and say to him, “ **Have a safe flight** , Simon.”

The last thing I see before I go up in flames and turn to ash is Simon, propelled back over the flames with the weight of the spell, his hand still reaching for me.

 

**_Twenty Years Later_ **

 

**SIMON**

 

I took a week off of work this year.

My boss asked, “Expecting company?” with raised eyebrows, because she’s quirky and has always teased me about my relationships, as I’m nearing forty without any family.

I don’t think she realizes the awful truth of it. I’m an orphan, and the only people who were ever motherly or fatherly towards me were killed twenty years ago this Boxing Day. The only person I had ever considered as family moved to America and started her own, without me. That’s not saying that Penny doesn’t speak to me anymore. We talk frequently over Skype, and she visits about twice a year. I’m her children’s godfather, but no matter how wonderful they are, I could never wish any ill on Penny or Micah.

But I’m still incredibly lonely. There’s been a hole in my chest since I was young, and not until recently did I realize that not everybody feels this way. That it’s just me that’s been missing something.

Depressing, I know. But like I said, I’m used to it. This is the life I’ve grown accustomed to.

It’s not really all that bad. I volunteer at any of my old orphanages on most weekends. I may never have as good a friend as Penny again, but I still am friends with some of the Watford graduates, despite my lack of magic. I go out to the pub with Rhys and Gareth once or twice every month, and I was a groom at each of their weddings. Trixie messages me sometimes over the various sources of social media we share. She and her wife are always kind to me, and I look after their daughter on their nights out. Which are few and far between, admittedly, but nice all the same. Even though it’s not often, Dev and Niall ask me out to coffee, even if it’s only because I was there when it happened.

His death still hurts, sometimes.

The last I saw of them, they were looking forlorn at the latest magickal news predicting the days the Veil would be open this year. They both looked at me expectantly.

“What?” I asked, because they clearly thought I was going to say something.

Dev was the first to speak, even if his voice came out small and vulnerable. War and death and time can do that to a person, I've learned.“Do you think you’ll have any Visitors?”

The question put me in a right foul mood, because it made me remember the worst year of my life, instead of  it staying buried (along with _his_ name) at the bottom of the list of Things I Don’t Think About. Ever. At All. For Any Reason Whatsoever. Even though I knew from the bottom of my heart that what Dev was asking was a valid question (they were cousins, after all) I still snapped at him.

“I dunno, Dev, you’ll have to be more specific. The only people I’ve ever cared about have all died. Who are you talking about?”

Niall has never been one to take any shit. He growled out, “Pack it in, mate. You know what he meant, and you’re not being very fair. That’s his cousin you’re talking to.”

Dev, looking all but dejected, stared into his coffee cup, not meeting anyone's eyes. He took a sip, before staring at me with all the intensity that he could muster, and saying, “If you do see him, tell him he didn’t _really_ waste our childhood.”

This just made me even more depressed, because I really can’t picture him coming back, much less to me. He had already said his final truth, right before he went. He couldn't want vengeance for anything (he offed _himself_ , the right prat) and his mother has already been avenged (Penny and I found out about the numpties from Fiona; we went to them and figured it all out. The Mage died trying to stop me from pouring my magic into the Humdrum).

I told them I didn’t think he’d come. “Maybe he’ll go see his family. Apologise, you know, that sort of thing.”

Dev considered this, and concluded, “I don’t think he could be sorry to his family. In the end, they were every bit as toxic as the Mage, weren’t they?” Snide comments against the Mage still sting a bit, even though I don’t know why. I thought I would outgrow the Mage- I certainly don’t respect him anymore. Nevertheless, I still feel the urge to come to his defense. I don’t, this time, for _his_ sake.

The get-together ended dismally, but it was the first time I went home and unpacked a few of my thoughts. Just the ones about the dead and the gone. Never his name. It felt too sacred and scandalous at the same time. It was the one thing on the list I never considered taking off.  

I realized by then, of course, that he was not the “rosebud boy” at all. From what I could gather from his family at the time, no one had even so much as uttered those words in the same sentence around him. I figured that it must have been my Mum, whoever she was. I think of her saying “I never would have left you,” and I feel at peace. But it leaves me with little consolation, because immediately after thinking this, I reckon that whoever my dad is, he did. Leave me, that is. I don’t expect to see him anytime soon.

The Mage, I did. I honest to Merlin expect an apology, and if he gives me any other kind of Chosen One crap, I’ll leave, and he can tell his secrets to the bloody fake Picasso I have hanging on the wall in my flat.

  Ebb is also someone I plan to see, or at least hear about. Not because I think she’ll have anything she desperately needs to say to me, but because I think she and I could use nice friendly chat. She’s more likely to visit her brother Nicodemus though; in which case he and Fiona (they finally got married about seven years ago; lucky me, I was a groom for them too) will have me over to dinner to discuss. And she’ll probably hope against hope (like I do) that _he_ has visited me, too.

I tried for a while not to think about these visitations. In my effort to ignore all this, however, I only thought about how he and I became friends (or at least, not enemies): his mother, mistaking her son to be in a place where she was called to, when at the time he was really in a coffin, drinking blood through a plastic straw.

What if my Mum came to my flat and I missed her because I was working a job I wasn’t even passionate about? What if she came to my office and was disappointed that all I ever accomplished was murdering the mage and then working a desk job for the rest of my life? How would I explain her presence to a Normal with no knowledge of magic?

When I couldn’t put these questions out of my mind, I decided to take a week’s holiday that corresponded to the Veil lifting.

I was upset to find that Penny wasn’t going to come back for the occasion. Her great aunt stopped coming when her Mum found the hidden library, full of magickal research.

“Besides,” she reasoned, as her children and Micah yelled over a video game they were playing in the background, “If anyone were to come and visit me, they would expect me to be here, wouldn’t they?” The Yankee accent had begun to take over her voice long ago, but it only mattered to me when I could really feel the distance between us, like I did then.

So, I’ve taken a week off work. I’ve stocked enough ingredients to make food for the entire week, and I have money to order delivery if I’m feeling lazy. I’ve already set up a list of books I need to read, movies I need to see, and shows that I can binge watch.

My boss was still looking at me expectantly. “Something like that,” I grin. Then feel sick, because it’s the last thing he ever said to Fiona. They were talking, unbeknownst to her, about me.

_“Basil. Have you met a bloke?”_

She told me his smile was made of trouble. Not the sneer or smirk I was accustomed to, but a real, genuine smile, that told her he must have been happy in his plotting.

_“Something like that.”_

~~~~~

This is the very first night. Already, a chill has swept through my entire flat. I was prepared for this: I wore a jumper and sweatpants for the occasion. Freshly opened fuzzy-socks were on my feet, and I slid around my home as I went about making dinner.

“Simon,” came a weepy voice, “my rosebud boy.” It drifted from the kitchen where I was standing to the lounge, in a whisper, as if it were a temporary wind. I thought I was prepared, but I still shiver when I recognize my Mum’s voice. I follow it out to the open space, eyes darting across the room looking for her.

“I never would have left you,” it came again, but it reverberated off the walls and I couldn’t place where it came from. “I didn’t have enough life, in the end, you must understand. I didn’t even have enough life in me to be properly dead.”

A beautiful, albeit self depreciating, laugh came from a space somewhere in front of my fake Picasso painting. The chill in the room began to waft to the spot, accumulating into a milky white mist. My mum began to form from the mist from the ground up, until finally, I could see her face.

She beams at me, and I can feel my eyes already starting to leak. She reaches for me, and I move closer to her. She puts her hand on my cheek, and it’s cool and sloshy. It doesn’t feel exactly solid; more like crumpled gelatin. Mushy. Cold.

“Handsome,” she decides, eyeing me closely. “My wavy hair, and big blue eyes. All of my freckles, too,” she giggles.

“Mum,” I say, but that’s all I can manage. Besides, she’s here to speak to me.

She understands immediately. “Simon, I came back to tell you I loved you before I met you, and I loved you more the moment I held you. I never would have left you. Simon. I wish I could have been here with you. And now look, you’re all grown up-”

“And all alone, Mum. I miss you and I’ve never met you either-”

“Simon, my dear rosebud boy, you could never be alone even if you tried. My love follows you wherever you go. And my brother, your uncle, he lives. You could find him” she interrupted, breathlessly. She was crying too, tiny beads of crystal on her cheek, “I have spoken my truth, it won’t be long now. I need answers- do you bear the name Snow?”

“Yes,” I breathed, “My last name.”

“Simon,” she says, and it sounds exasperated, but she’s smiling. “That was supposed to be your middle name. Had I lived, I would have given you my name. Salisbury,” she added, acknowledging my wonder, “Lucy Salisbury.”

She clutched at my hands, as if trying to stay tethered to me. I let her, even as goosebumps rolled up my arms all the way to my shoulders. “Your father made many mistakes. It gave and cost you your magic. It cost me my life. I believe he is sorry.”

She was getting blurry around the edges now, and I was afraid she would melt away. I feared squeezing her hands, because I thought they might fall apart.

“Mum, I would’ve loved you both,” I say, because it was true.

The last look she gave me was pitying but full of love. “Oh Simon,” she says, sighing, and the breath she lets out leaves her with a bundle of mist, “You did love him. I hope you can find it in your heart to forgive him, You have my kindness, my rosebud boy.” Mist tumbled out of her mouth, every word costing her time on this plane of existence with me. The last words were mere whispers, and her body dissolved, leaving my hands gripping empty space.

“He’s coming…” It was her last whisper, but it echoed around the room several times. Her last truth.

She looked like I did, or so she said. Lucy Salisbury… and she had mentioned magic. Did that mean she herself was a witch? Did she go to Watford too? Do I really have an _uncle_? A family, perhaps? Salisbury… Hm. I knew I had some investigating to do.

And my father. He was coming...

This could all wait, though. For now, I was going to write down the entire encounter, and get some rest.

~~~~~

I’m quietly eating my chow mein on a comfortable armchair in the lounge while having a solo _Star Wars_ marathon when a chill sweeps through me so piercing that I drop the fork. The mist in the room gathers more quickly this time, right in front of the telly. The magic of it all interferes with Darth Vader dramatically telling Luke that he is his father.

I don’t have to wait for the Mage to materialize; he does so instantly. With what Mum said about magic and death, I suppose it means that the more magic you have, the easier it is for you to cross the veil.

I jump to my feet and ball my fists. I can’t decide whether I feel angry or guilty. Maybe both, at the same time.

“Simon,” says the Mage, “I have something very important to say. You’re going to sit next to me, and you are going to listen without interrupting. You’ll have every right to be angry later. Please, let’s sit.”

The Mage moved towards the couch across from him and sat down. As I join him him, I realize that the Mage must have been at my current age when he died. The thought makes my insides boil with an emotion I rarely ever feel. To distract myself, I think of his form. The Mage is made out of very different stuff than Mum was. He was more of a heavily condensed fog, but he was solid enough to sit and leave an imprint in the couch.

“I have made many mistakes, Simon. And you were perhaps the biggest one of them all.”

I open my mouth to speak, then close it again, remembering my promise.

“I should never have immersed myself in the prophesies. I know now what is important, and what is not. I guaranteed from the beginning that you would not have a family, a most cardinal sin.

“You would’ve had magic anyway, Simon. The only reason it’s gone is because of the stupid rituals I performed when your mother was pregnant. I fear what I did brought her death, too, in the end. You see, I _wanted_ you to be the Chosen One, more than anything in the world.”

He takes a deep breath before beginning again. “I should have started this differently. Oh, well. I assume we have time, since there is much I need to say. Simon, your last name ought to have been Salisbury, and your middle name Snow, but I was a coward. I am your father.”

My mind reels, and I think I might be sick.

“I promised Lucy I’d take care of you, but I was afraid I would be sought after. You were a superweapon right from the start, and my career as a politician would’ve been hampered with an explosive baby. I left you at an orphanage because I knew you would be safe there until I could collect you. I was so happy when I found you again. I swore to myself I would get it right this time.

“Then, of course, the Insidious Humdrum became a problem, as did the Old Families. I could not reveal you as my true son- they would have known, instantly, that there was Dark magic involved. They wouldn’t have laughed even at the notion that the magic itself  was hidden in Bohemian Rhapsody.

“There is no excuse for my wild fantasy of a Chosen One. I’m afraid I’ve damaged you too much to repair, and I’ve taken everyone you loved from you. Your mum, Ebb… Penny is alive and well of course, but I will admit she would have met the same fate as the others if she had taken you away from me like I know she planned to do.

“I had no regrets at the time. I thought it was all for the greater good. Natasha Pitch was a sacrifice that had to be made, and the tortured life her son endured helped him stay self-conscious and out of my way. I truly believed everything I had done was benefiting people. The only thing I don’t regret now is that you have lived, and that anyone with the ability to do  magic can be taught at Watford. Everything else, however, I realize now was wrong, awful, and very near unforgivable.”

He bowed his head, apparently done with what he was saying.

My brain felt fuzzy, and my stomach was still turning as I digested all of this information.

Some part of me wanted to latch on to his statement of him being my father, and the other part on the prophecy and magic that he bestowed on me. It was my heart, however, that broke as it won over all the other things I was thinking of saying.

“You are such an arsehole. And you could never be my father.”

The Mage deflates a bit, and says, “I hope one day you can forgive me for the damage I’ve caused.”

“Mum told me that too, said that I’d inherited her kindness.” The Mage looked at me hopefully, but I shook my head fiercely. “But apparently, I’ve also inherited your tendency to be bitter and cruel.”

The Mage’s eyes went glassy and he smiled in a sad, pathetic way, as if asking for mercy. “I’ll hold on as long as I can, Simon, if only just to appreciate the man you’ve become. I’ve said my truths, so I’ll be called away, but until then, haven’t you any questions for me?”

I jumped up, the rage in my stomach boiling over. I grit my teeth, and say, “And the numpties? Were they for the greater good as well?”

“Yes, but I regret it deeply,” he admits, and his face is so full of his pity for me I have to turn away. The image of _him_ scared and alone in a coffin for so long seeps into my mind, unwelcome. It brings hot, angry tears to my eyes. My attempts to blink them away only make more of them come out and fall onto my cheeks.

Instead, I try to remember when Penny and I figured out I was the greatest threat of all to the World of Mages. I remember her connecting it to the prophecy, saying that I came to end it all, and brought my own fall with my sacrifice to the Humdrum.

“Was it you or me the prophecy spoke of?” I say, trying to control my voice.

“It was a combination of the two, though more so you. I may have brought you into the world, but you were the one to use up all of its magic.”

“Did I also bring my own fall, then?” I snap, but I’m still not facing him.

“No, no you didn’t. The thing that did called upon the most curious magic, if I might say.”

I turn around, and the Mage is already transparent, disappearing into a light fog. The blue couch is visible beneath him, adding to the sadness etched on his face.

“What did it, then?”

“Oh, Simon. _Him,_ of course..”

“What do you- who do you mean? _How_ -?” I demanded, but the Mage was already gone.

Once again, just like my  Mum, the last truth whispered by the Mage echoed on the walls of my flat.

“ _Fell_ in love, didn’t you?”

~~~~~

The Mage’s Visit made me sick. Literally. I slept half a day after the encounter, and vomited as soon as I got up. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t make myself feel warm for two days.

It’s Wednesday, and today is the fourth day of the veil being open. Luckily, nothing has happened since the Mage came on Monday, because I would have been too sick to handle it.

I think the sickness came out of all the thinking the Visits of my Mum and the Mage made me do. I worry that this means I have to go back to therapy. This is upsetting because I had been doing so well without it for the past twelve years. It would be embarrassing to call her up again, just to say, “Guess what? I’m still fucked!”

I’m currently laying in my bed, considering cancelling the rest of my holiday and going back to work. After all, the only two people I had _really_ expected to show up had already done so, and the fact that I had nothing to do was the reason I was thinking so much, and therefore the reason for my being ill. And I’ve grown so familiar with all the cracks on my ceiling!

I am too much of a softie to actually go back though. The big hole in my heart has taken me over, and it’s all I can do to wish they’d come to Visit me.

 _At least Ebb. She was always the one I could talk to_.

“Hiya, Simon,” says Ebb’s voice, as if I had just summoned her out of thin air. I startle, and sit up. She’s sitting on the edge of my bed, laughing at my surprise. I think it’s the first time she’s ever not been so melancholy or weepy. The lines on her face indicate that her afterlife must be wrought with happiness.

I grin despite myself. “Hiya, Ebb.”

“Snake’s alive, Simon, you’re as pale as a vampire! Have you been ill?”

I try, and barely succeed, _not_ to think of the vampire comment. “A bit. Haven’t been out of bed for a while, to be honest.” I climb out of bed.

She smiles and understands. “I’m not the first one, am I?”

“Third, actually,” I say, as she comes around the bed and links her arm in mine. Ebb’s body is still white and cold, but she’s as solid as ice. It’s comforting. She leads us out to the lounge, heading to the couch I’d talked to the Mage on. “I finally found out who my mum and dad were- Lucy Salisbury and…” I gulp, swallowing what felt like hatred. “The Mage,” I say at last.

“Oh dear,” she says, sitting down and getting comfortable. She looks relaxed and at peace, and I can’t help but feel that way too, sitting beside her. She puts her hand on my shoulder, considering something.

“You’re older than me now,” she points out at last.

It’s such an Ebb thing to say, that I laugh out loud.

“It’s not as weird as my twin being older, though.”

“You’ve seen Nicodemus?”

“Yeah. Gave him a right scare too, nearly let Fiona hex me.”

“Is that why you came back?”

“I had to tell him I didn’t blame him for anything, and that I was happy he’s _turned_ around. Pun intended.”

“Why’d you come here then?” I ask, now smiling on the inside as well.

She looks at me, and it’s full of kindness. “I was powerful enough to- and I think we both know you needed it, Simon.”

I examine my hands in my lap, and Ebb looks around. “Nice place you’ve got here,” she muses.

“Thanks, I quite like it myself.”

Ebb gets up and walks over to my fake Picasso. “Although, it is a bit bare- except… This is lovely, what is it?”

“The salesperson told me it was violin cubism? I have no idea what that means, exactly, or who actually painted it. I just call it my fake Picasso.”

She stares at it a bit more, before turning back to look at me. There’s pity in her eyes, and I wonder when people (Visitors, mostly) will stop looking at me like that. It makes me feel trapped or cornered. With Ebb, it’s even worse, because she’s so powerful I’m afraid she might try to read my mind or something.

All she says, however, is, “Simon, that’s a violin.”

I squirm under her gaze, and it’s all I can do to nod.

Ebb sighs and walks back over to me, grabbing my hand and pulling me up into a tight hug.

“Oh, Simon.”

I squeeze her, digging my face into the space between her head and neck. Her body is cool, and it calms me down, even though I know our time is running out. “Ebb, everyone’s said that to me. Everyone’s pitied me. Why?”

She grabs me by the shoulders and makes me face her. Her milky eyes bore into mine, and I know we’ve only got seconds left. She’s not melting like my mother, though, or fading like the Mage. She’s a strong, solid mass, and her fingers are digging into my shoulders.

“Because we miss you, Simon! Because we see you here, alone and unhappy, and we just want to give you the world. We may be biased, but you definitely deserve it. Whatever you may say, you _saved us all._ ”

My eyes are watering for several reasons at this point. She’s just used his last words against me, but I don’t want her to leave me, and her hands are also digging so hard into my shoulders that it’s painful.  I’m almost positive she’ll be the last one (there is still that part of me, though, hoping he’ll show up).

“Please don’t leave me,” I whisper, and her face falls into the most sincere and well meaning smile I’ve ever seen. She puts her left hand on my chest, and I’m surprised to feel that it’s warm. I look at her with shock obvious on my features. A single tear falls from her right eye, but she still smiles.

“ **The ones that love us never really leave us** ,” Ebb says at last, and I swear to Merlin and Morgana both that she says it with magic. Don’t ask me how it’s possible, but I can feel something warm seep from her hand, and it flows through my body.

Ebb vanishes without the dramatics of my Mum or the Mage. She’s just… gone.

The warmth she casted on me leaves with her in a rush. I collapse onto the couch, sobbing in earnest for the first time this week. The gaping void inside me feels like a black hole, and I would like nothing better than to disappear inside it for eternity.

If I did, maybe I would see _him_ again.

~~~~~

The days after Ebb leaves, after I cried myself to sleep, I spend in a more relaxed peace. The loss of them still hurts, and I still can’t wait until I see them again, but Ebb reminded me that I’ll always have my memories of them. The fondest ones I keep tucked into the corners of my mind, and I decided to only use them in times of great distress.

That is to say, I spent the next few days clearing my head.

I went outside, no longer afraid to miss a Visitor. There was no one left to see. The walks I went on revealed to me areas of London I’d never even considered before, because I’ve kept myself busy over the years. I Skyped Penny, and told her everything (except for the pity and “Oh, Simon’s.” I also didn’t tell her about Ebb’s spell) and she was very interested to hear about my Mum, and pleased that I stood up to the Mage. I stopped by the orphanage I volunteer at sometimes, making sure to donate money on the way out.

It’s Saturday, and the last day before the Veil closes. My flat is on the fourth and final floor of the building, and the view from the balcony is impeccably gorgeous. I sit in the patio chairs with a glass of iced lemonade next to me ( because I never grew fond of alcohol). The day was hot, but it’s nice out as the sun sets over the city. I watch as lights flicker on in the buildings across the landscape. A warm breeze seems to curl around me, bringing with it a familiar scent that I can’t quite place. It leaves me to think about Watford, though I don’t know why.

A knock on my door jolts me out of my thoughts, and my arms flail, knocking over the lemonade, glass shattering everywhere. I swear, and think that this is one of the moments that I miss my magic the most. If I had magic, I could fix this no problem, but now I have to decide whether I should clean up the mess or check to see who could possibly be asking for me.

I clean up the pieces first, figuring that I can think about who it is while I’m at it. Penny? No, I Skyped her last night, and she would’ve told me if she was coming. Come to think of it, it couldn’t be any of my other friends, because they all would have texted first. Who would show up on my door unannounced?

Whoever they are knocks on the door again as I’m putting the broken glass into the rubbish bin.

“Coming, I’m coming,” I say, hurriedly shuffling towards the door clapping my hands together to get any dirt or whatever off them. I don’t even think about what I’m wearing (still in sweatpants, an old t-shirt, and fuzzy socks) before throwing the door wide open.

He’s dressed in a sharp dark blue suit. Dark hair is hanging loosely around his eyes. He’s still taller than me, and as fucking posh as ever.

But there are many changes to him too: gone is the pasty grey skin (one of the many tell-tale signs of a vampire), replaced by the beautiful reddish brown I saw in a photograph of him when he was younger than five. Gone is the sneer that I knew like the back of my hand, and in it’s place the most gorgeous smile I’ve ever seen. He looks like Fiona said he did, leaving her house that day- made of trouble.

At first, I thought he must be a Visitor. But then _I_ went as pale as a Visitor, because he was definitely in color, and even more solid than Ebb. I can smell the aroma that carried on the breeze earlier, and I know he’s here.

He’s _actually here_.

I think I stare at him for a full minute before his grin begins to falter, and he looks worried.

He opens his mouth to say something, reaching for me. I catch a glimpse of a cross-shaped burn on his hand.

I back away. As I do so, however, I trip on the doorstep and land flat on my back, smacking my head on the hardwood in a way that tells me I’ll have a bruise there in the morning. I scramble to get up and dash inside despite the pain. Except, when I’m inside, I don’t know what to do. A bachelor’s flat doesn’t have many hiding spots, and I’m sure he’ll follow me. In my rush to get away, I hadn’t even closed the door.

So I just stand there, in the center of the lounge, with my hands balled tightly into fists and eyes screwed shut. I’m facing the door, so perhaps when I open them, he’ll be gone. I wouldn’t be surprised if it was all my imagination.

Instead, the complete opposite happens. I hear the door squeak and close, footsteps that lead right to me. I can smell him properly now- still cedar and bergamot, after all these years. He’s so close I can feel the heat from his body (this is also new- from what I remember, his skin was always icy cold).

Nothing happens for a moment.

Then, he leans over me, and his hair falls into my face a bit. One of his warm, slender-fingered hands is tilting my chin up ever so slightly.

It’s the most intimate kiss I’ve ever had, except for one in the midst of a fiery inferno twenty years ago. The image of him, at seventeen, leaning against a burning tree and pulling me towards him plays over and over behind my eyelids. The warmth of his body is almost too much- I feel like I’m there again, like he’s going to make me fly backwards any second now.

But neither of us pulls away. Neither of us even moves.

Then I break my most closely followed rule, and I remember his name.

 _Baz_ . Baz is _back._

Truth be told, this should be setting alarms off in my head. But my brain is fuzzy, because Baz has just deepened the kiss, pulling me forward gently by the arm and fitting me like a puzzle piece against his body.

The hand on my chin slides to cup my cheek, and I lean into the touch, making our lips slide and come back together again. The hand on my arm snakes around and holds me tight on my lower back.

Baz, to my surprise, pulls away first. He rests his forehead against mine, and neither of us say anything. I’m trying very hard not to hyperventilate.

Nothing happens for a moment. He ducks down and places his head in the space where my neck and shoulder meet. I can feel his breath on my skin, and it’s so warm that I shiver. His lips find the skin and kiss me very softly.

Baz sighs. “Oh, Simon.”

Everything is starting to make sense…

Wait.

No it’s not.

I push him away.

I didn’t expect him to stagger backwards and almost fall, but that’s what happened. I don’t think I’ve ever been able to push him over (without magic) before. Something _weird_ has happened to him.

“You’re dead!” I shout. His face falls and there is deep sorrow that follows the thin lines of his face.  

Baz holds my gaze despite his sadness. “I was,” is all he says. Unable to look at me anymore, he turns- and is transfixed by the fake Picasso in my room. His intake of breath is sharp as a knife. My stomach tightens itself into knots.

“Past tense?” I question. “So you’re not just a Visitor?”

He scoffs. “Yeah, Snow. I’m a Visitor with dark skin, black hair, and a full on navy blue colored suit. I’m sure your mother turned up the same way?”

I like this version of Baz better right now. He’s every bit the poncy git he was when we were at school. This is the Baz I can handle.

A jab at my mother back then would have made my magic prick my skin. I relish in the fact that I’m arguing with him and can actually keep my cool. I roll my eyes, for the effect, and say, “Hardly. She, my dad, and Ebb were all white.”  
Interest takes over his carefully controlled features. “Your- your dad?”

I’ve never heard him second guess a sentence. The sincerity in his voice throws me off, and also makes me remember who my dad actually _is._ Maybe I shouldn’t have mentioned it.

But I nod slowly anyway, and when I speak, it comes out a whisper, “The Mage.”

Baz turns back towards the painting, glaring at it as if it offended him somehow. His hands are clenched tight, and his knuckles are turning white. His jaw is working, and he’s sucking on his fangs, like he always used to when we were young-

Wait- no he wasn’t. Baz was just chewing on his lower lip. His mouth didn’t even look full like it usually did when his control slipped and anger showed.

I sputtered in my attempt to speak, and he turned around, raising an elegant eyebrow at me, all talk about the Mage forgotten.

“Are you- are you still a vampire?”

Baz held out his hands in front of him as if examining a manicure, and then turned them over, palms up. He smiled in a reminiscing way as his right thumb caresses something I can’t see in his left palm. He shows me, still smiling. “Do you still have that necklace? We can test it out.”

 _Of course_ I still have that necklace. It’s sitting in my sock drawer, right next to his wand.

I suppose it’s a bit selfish, not returning Baz’s wand to his family (I had just told them it must’ve burnt) but I kept it because it was all that was left of him. It felt right, because he gave everything to me in those last few seconds- why should his wand be any exception?  
I gesture for Baz to follow me into the bedroom. I desperately hope he’s not thinking that I’m going to try and seduce him. I hope that all of this is just as weird for him as it is for me. When we get to the room, I open the drawer of the dresser and hand him the cross.

There’s no reaction. It’s in his palm, and he’s just staring at it. A wide grin takes over his face, and he says, “Guess not.”

What can you say to that? I had no answer to offer, so instead I handed him his old wand. He took it, confused, and asked, “Why did you keep this?”

I shrug, “It’s yours.”

He looks at me like he’s looking at the sun; squinting, like he’s suspicious. Then he takes my hand, and bellows, “ **Twinkle Twinkle Little Star!** ”

And we’re in space again. Even without my magic flowing through him, we’re in space. Baz breaks into a delighted laugh, and I manage a half smile. He pulls me into a tight hug, dropping his wand in the process. The stars are all sucked away, vacuum-like, into the walls of my room. I watch them go; when I turn back, Baz’s attention is solely on me.

“I don’t know if I’m here to stay,” he says, and doesn’t elaborate. He casts the necklace aside. It clatters to the floor in the corner of the room.

I’m looking at him with what is possible to be my most confused look yet. He’s moving towards me with the expression he always wore when he was about to attack.

“I don’t want to waste my time.”

It slowly dawns on me what he’s trying to say, and he stops, inches from my face. I get the message: he’s asking me for permission.

I grant it.  
The kiss this time is more frantic, and we’re already trying to tug each other’s shirts off. My shirt is discarded easily, and Baz wastes no time in kissing my neck all the way to my chest, hitting every visible mole and freckle. This makes it hard for me to get to his several layers of clothes, so his hands leave me for a moment to get rid of of them.

I can’t help it: I open my eyes a fraction to see his bare chest. Then all the way, because he’s gorgeous. Baz notices (I’ve stopped everything just to stare at that point), and his eyes get impossibly hungrier.

It’s hard to image Baz has ever been dead. His skin is bright and hot with lust, and his chest is rising and falling as he recovers from the lack of air one experiences while having their lips attached to somebody else’s body. I look down at my own body, to find it already covered with hickeys. Baz follows my gaze, and traces the biggest one with a long finger. I groan.

“So you can remember me,” he starts softly, “If-”

But I don’t let him finish the sentence, or the thought. I collide with his mouth so hard, I cut my lip on his teeth, but it’s alright, because he’s not a vampire anymore.

He’s just as strong as one though; he picks me up as if it were nothing to him. My legs wrap around his waist of their own accord and I feel about twenty years younger as he walks over and lays me down onto the bed. Baz is predatory as he crawls over my body and presses himself against me. I feel something warm and wet trailing from the base of my neck up to my ear, and I know he’s just licked me. I shudder, and goosebumps appear all over my skin. I know he’s smiling as he nibbles on my earlobe- which, _Merlin_ _help me_ , makes me lose complete control. I moan and my hips buck up the at the same time Baz’s are rolling down.

He swears, loudly, then stills. I want him to keep moving, but he’s shaking his head into my neck and panting hard.

“I can’t do this to you again, Simon,” he props himself up on both elbows while his hands thread themselves into my hair. Our foreheads are almost touching. “I can’t leave you with such a heavy burden again. Last time- I know I’ve hurt you. I’m so, so sorry.”

I press our foreheads together because he’s too intense to look at right now. I’ve never seen Baz cry, and I don’t want tonight to the first time. (Neither does he, I think that’s what this is about. Although for something completely different. If I hadn’t been starved of contact for two whole decades I might agree with him a bit).

I swallow my disagreement, because the last thing I want to do is to scare him away. Instead, I mutter, “Stay.”

I feel, rather than see, Baz moving off of me. For a moment I’m worried he’s going to leave anyway, and I open my eyes just as his hands find me to pull me closer to him. We’re both laying on our sides: his face and one of his hands in my hair, muttering sweet nothings (“It’s always been you, Simon.” “My love, you are the universe.” Even cheesy things like: “Even though you aren’t the Chosen One, I choose you.”) while toying with the curls. His other hand is intertwined with mine somewhere near our hips. My nose is against his chest, and I take advantage of the situation to memorize his scent, while my other hand lays over his heart.

We fall asleep like this, tangled up in a knot that feels like infinity.

~~~~~

I wake up in the morning to find Baz still laying there next to me. The Veil has closed, and he’s right here.

I’ll admit: it freaked me out so bad I fell out of bed. I climb back up though, and touch his face, barely breathing.

He’s solid, warm, and breathing deeply. His skin is glowing bronze in the sunlight filtering in through the window, catching the morning sun. Baz doesn’t wince or yell at me to close the curtains, so I leave them, and enjoy the feeling of blood pumping through the veins in his cheeks.

Baz stirs a bit, leaning into my touch and smiling slightly.

Does he know that he’s _alive_?

Do _I_? Could I be just dreaming? Could life be so cruel…

“This is real,” Baz mutters, and he doesn’t move his lips so I question again whether this is happening. He opens his eyes, and they swirl with all the colors of London fog. And then, just to be sure, Baz lifted a hand to my face, rubbing his thumb against my cheek.

I grin as the void inside me begins to fill.

~~~~~

 

**BAZ**

 

As it turns out, Bunce (of course she didn’t take Micah’s last name, she hasn’t changed that much, surely) never specifically told Simon her area of study. Just that she was a professor at UCSD. She taught politics and feminism (or something) to Normals, but they were really paying her to do research on the Veil.

Imagine the Skype call Simon insisted we make on the afternoon I was decidedly alive.

“Simon, good to see you. Are you alright? Trying to put past week behind you, I’m sure,” she started, after casting a spell to have better connection. Her face went suddenly pensive, then she said in a whisper, “Did _he_ show up?”

This was my cue. Simon grinned as I came up from behind him to plant a kiss on his forehead, and said, “I dunno, Penny, you tell me.”

I looked right into the camera, and Bunce was staring back, stiff as a board and utterly stunned. She’s certainly changed a lot since we were eighteen. Bunce is  keeping it natural these days: frizzy brown hair escaping the knot she’s tied it in, sleep bags that tell me right off the bat she has children, possibly even a teenager. Even her glasses are new, trading the eccentric ones for a pair of smart, thin rimmed ones that make her look scholarly.

The most notable difference is that she’s aged. She’s got permanent lines on her face that indicate a long life of happiness and laughter and driving her kids to football (or as she calls it now, soccer) or to family picnics.

I’ve missed out on all theses experiences. When I looked at Penelope Bunce, I, too, was shocked to stillness.

She recovered first, and decided something very quickly. “I’ll be there in two days, boys. Please don’t ruin the flat in the meantime.” Bunce has never done anything by halves.

“No promises on the master, love,” Simon retorted, quick as lightning.

It broke me out of my daze, and my laugh was like thunder.

Bunce scowled, but looked amused all the same, and ended the Skype call.

“Alright, Basilton, talk,” Bunce demands now over a bowl of curry. All three of us are standing in Simon’s kitchen, because I felt weird with the sitting. I hadn’t seen them in so long that watching their bodies fold away while sitting terrified me- like they were disappearing. Bunce was extremely confused this statement, which I voiced aloud, but Simon took it in stride and moved us here. I think he assumes I’ll be a little unknowable and fucked up for a while. It’s incredibly thoughtful of him. Bunce looks like she’s going to continue the thought, but I interrupt her anyway, for the sake of clarity.

“I can’t _remember_ anything clearly, and I hadn’t really realized how much time had passed until Simon opened the door. What I _can_ remember though, is not a memory, but a feeling, like thick steam all around me. Oh, and I’m not a vampire anymore either,” I add, because I was proud that I have not had even the faintest urge to drain anything of its life since I’ve been back.

She eyes me for a second, and I can’t tell whether she’s going to chastise me for interrupting or if she’s going to start anew from where I’ve left off. She chooses the latter, and says, “I think that matches one of the hypotheses my colleague came up with. Purgatory.”

Simon and I stare at her, waiting for the elaboration.

“We can’t presume to know how the afterlife works or if it even exists. Not a soul who has crossed the Veil can ‘remember’ anything beyond the Veil, and so nobody knows what it’s like. The existence of the Veil, however, suggests an afterlife, yes?” She’s checking for understanding, and Simon and I both nod.

“So when someone dies, how do they get to this afterlife? How do some of them get stuck so that they remain for when the Veil lifts? My colleague- he grew up in a very Catholic neighbourhood, and he described to us all that in that religion there is a place where souls are sometimes sent to wait before God can decide whether to send them to Heaven or Hell.”

“But there is no God,” Simon protests.

“I know, but there _is_ an afterlife, which we proved before.”

Simon ponders this, before saying, “Yeah, okay. I see,” and gesturing for her to continue.

“If the soul is deemed worthy of Heaven, Purgatory acts as a cleanser for all sins and other mortal, earthly disaster, and the end result is a pure soul, worthy of Heaven.”

“Are you saying-” I begin, unsure whether I'm offended by that or not.

“I wasn’t finished. We know that the Visitors can cross when the Veil has lifted only if they have something important that they really need to say. And that once it’s said and taken care of, they don’t return. You’re mother didn’t come back this year, Baz. I told your family to notify me, but nothing came of it.”

My mind stops for a second, because all at once I remember why I fucking killed myself in the first place. I can feel rage that’s been boiling inside me for two decades resurface. I haven’t felt like this yet- it makes me feel like I’ve been living in a dream state with Simon the past forty eight hours. I probably have.

I open my mouth to say something, probably very nasty, when Bunce shoots a dark look at Simon. “You haven’t told him?” she hissed.

Simon all but shrank into the counter he was leaning on. “We’ve been busy!”

“So busy you couldn’t talk about how we avenged his mother for him because he was too much of a coward to carry on?”

“Penny!”

“Bunce, you little-”

“ _NO!_ ” she yells, and we both fall silent.

Now I know that I’ve been in a dream state. Simon looks as if he’s about to cry, and won’t look at me. Bunce is taking turns glaring daggers at the two of us, and I’m still seething from being called a coward.

However true it may be, it still hurts.

“It’s not my story to tell,” she decides, “I’ll forgive this little honeymoon, but now… Now it’s time to face reality again.”

Simon, whose eyes are wetter than they were mere seconds ago, swallows visibly, and I realize that Bunce and I are both watching him. Me, because I can’t help it. But Bunce looks like she’s asking for his permission to continue.

He looks away from us again, but nods slowly. _Aleister Crowley,_ I wonder. _What happened that was bad enough to take the sunshine out of his life?_

I think of the fact that Simon hasn’t used magic since I’ve been here. I think about the flat’s empty surfaces where I would have expected, after twenty years, photos of family and friends to be. The furniture has color, but it’s all dull or plain. The walls are white and bare, save for the painting. The violin cubism, Simon’s fake Picasso. _What made him so empty and sad?_

The violin cubism sticks in my head.

 _Violin_ cubism.

_Well, fuck._

I reach out to him, trying very hard to shove down my feelings of anger and guilt and regret with the contact of his arm gripped tightly in my hand. He still doesn’t look at me, though.

“Simon.” My voice is stern, but lacks the ice I so often wove into my conversations as a teenager. “Simon, feel my hand? This is real.”

Bunce is studying us closely. Simon finally turns around. He doesn’t make eye contact with either of us (merely looking down at his fuzzy-socked feet) but he shuffles closer to me.

Penelope Bunce, the wonderful woman, had already voiced her recognition of dropping the subject, and she just picked up where she had left off before.

“So, if you get the similarities, the Veil acts as the theoretical Purgatory. You move on once you’ve said your truth.”

“Or in other words, shed your sins.”

“Right.”

“What does this have to do with me, though?”

Bunce- Penny (I should really call her that, now. I owe her that much at the very least), pauses before saying, “That’s the second part of the theory. Basil, this isn’t common knowledge here in the UK because we’ve become inherently speciesist, but there’s been plenty of research done on the subject in America. Vampires _are_ immortal.”

The room is very silent, all of a sudden. I’m not sure anyone’s breathing.

“First and foremost, though- I’m sorry I don’t have a better way to put it- vampires are unnatural creatures. Super strength and immortality, being dead without actually dying, only to be felled by fire. It goes against magical laws of nature, which- yes, Simon, those exist, much like the laws of physics,” she add, because Simon’s head had snapped up towards her about to ask something.

“They theorized that if a vampire had some final truth to tell, when the Veil pulled them back, they would be rid of everything that makes them a vampire: fangs, the want for blood, pasty skin, etcetera.

“The arithmancy behind this idea has a huge problem with the immortality portion, though, especially since the immortality aspect is due to the fact that vampires are like walking corpses.” I cringe, and Penny shoots me an apologetic look before continuing. “This could trick the Veil into spitting them back out into the real world, as they were before. Hence, why you are with us now, Basil.”

Simon is still looking at the floor. His brows are furrowed in concentration, lips moving. It’s like he’s trying really hard to remember something to question or add to Penny’s theories.

I stare at him because I’ve always loved watching him think.  

Penny stares at us, because we’re acting strange.

Eventually she heaves an exasperated sigh, gathering her scattered belongings strewn about the kitchen.

“I’ll leave you two to it tonight. Simon, I expect you to contact me tomorrow. I’ll be here for a week, mostly at Watford, interviewing people who were Visited.” She walks over to him and wraps him in a great hug that he returns. Penny says something into his ear, and I can just see the corners of his mouth turning up, though most of his face is pressed along her shoulder. He pads out of the room when she releases him, looking sleepy.

It’s all I can do not to follow. Then again, Penny is staring at me with such intent that I’m pinned to the spot.

“Take care of him.” Its an order, not a question.

“Always.” It’s the truth, not just a word depicting a great expanse of time.

She gives me a curt nod, and lets herself out of the flat.

I rush off to find Simon in the master bed, curled up in a ball. His knees drawn into his chest and his arms locked in front of them. I have him memorized in this position; he used to sleep like this at Watford. His eyes are glassy and his mind is far away.

I kiss his temple before curling around him, moving my arms around his torso and getting myself as close to him as possible. Simon blinks out of his daze and slowly unfurls his body to a more relaxed position that better fits mine. He closes his eyes.

What I say next, I say it because I regret missing twenty years of what I now know could have been our lives together. I say it because it’s important and the truth.

“Never again.”

Sleep pulls me. I hold on to Simon, and let time pass in darkness once again.

~~~~~

**SIMON**

Once Baz was back, I realized that one week wasn’t enough to be on holiday.

He had missed twenty years of goings on: weddings (I haven’t explained Fiona and Nicodemus yet, because I know he won’t be pleased), family, friends. I can’t say that I’m caught up on current global events (once I didn’t have to care about them anymore, I didn’t) but I know those would be important to him.

Long story short, I’m quitting my job.

I didn’t hate it, exactly. It kept me busy, which is to say, distracted. I always felt numb. I know that this is because I used my job as a way to pretend the gaping hole inside me could be filled. And then Baz came back, and fucked it all up.

He reminded me that he was the heir to the House of Pitch, and that we wouldn’t have to want for money (even though we haven’t figured out how to introduce him back into society). I showed him the safe where I keep the money from book royalties (several have been written about me; they all range from historical nonfiction to speculation and mental but novel length conspiracy theories). Baz wondered out loud why in hell did I need a boring desk job when I made so much off of these, at which time I told him about the constant emptiness in my chest.

He told me that we had the rest of our lives for him to make up for it. I suppose he’s right.

When I go to my boss the Wednesday after the Veil closed, she smiles, even though I haven’t shown up in eight days. She smiles straight through the news that I was quitting immediately, too. I’m instantly suspicious, but she just looks happy for me.

“Did you find good company, then?” Her eyebrows are raised, but there is good naturedness written all over her features.

“Something like that,” I grin back.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to @snowbazmysons (on tumblr) for coming up with the alternate spell that could have been used in Chapter 61, which therefore inspired the rest of this work. Speaking of tumblr, you can find me there as celestialconspiracy (personal) carryonbasiltonpitch (carry on sideblog) or blackholehuman (where all of my fics and such reside for now).
> 
> Thanks to everybody who reads this! Please feel free to comment, I love hearing from my readers. Don't forget kudos if you liked it! Have a nice day =D


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